The stormy March is come at last,
	With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
	I hear the rushing of the blast,
	That through the snowy valley flies.

Bryant.    

	Ah, March! we know thou art
	Kind-hearted, spite of ugly looks and threats,
	And, out of sight, art nursing April’s violets.

Helen Hunt Jackson.    

	Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
	O welcome, thou that bring’st the summer nigh!
	The bitter wind makes not the victory vain,
	Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.

William Morris.    

	The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,
	Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,
	Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,
	Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.

Clare.    

	All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
	It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
	The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
	And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

Tennyson.    

	Ah, passing few are they who speak,
	Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;
	Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,
	Thou art a welcome month to me.
	For thou, to northern lands, again
	The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
	And thou hast joined the gentle train
	And wear’st the gentle name of Spring.

Bryant.